There was a scent like honeycomb
From mugwort dull. And down upon the dome
Of the stone the cart-horse kicks against so oft
A butterfly alighted. From aloft
He took the heat of the sun, and from below.
“A single rose, a gorgeous sunset, the intricate design of what had previously been an “ugly” insect—I cannot guess what she saw, but she saw. And in excitement and rapture, she cried out to her mate (whatever form of “marriage” they had in those days) “Oh, look at this, look!” and he looked and he saw. And beauty was created in a world that had been flat and dead and meaningless until that moment.“
Robert Anton Wilson